


Body Work

by chemm80



Series: Body Work 'Verse [1]
Category: Sons of Anarchy, Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-29
Updated: 2008-12-29
Packaged: 2017-11-02 09:17:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/367419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chemm80/pseuds/chemm80
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p> “Jax is tattooed with a replica of his patch, so big it covers his whole back. A skeletal grim reaper holding a sickle and some sort of crystal ball takes up the center, with “Sons of Anarchy, California” in semicircles at top and bottom. Dean’s never seen anything like it.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Body Work

It’s the parking lot of a roadside bar in Lodi, California. Dean’s hunkered down next to the passenger door of the Impala when a Harley Dyna Superglide pulls up. Dean spares it a quick glance and nothing more, which is a sign of how pissed he is, because it’s a hell of a nice bike and any other time he’d be all over that. At the moment, however, the object of his complete attention is the dent in his passenger door. It’s about three inches long and maybe three-eighths of an inch deep, with a line of white paint running down the center. A fucking dent in his car. 

“Fuck, man. That sucks.”

Dean looks in the direction of the voice and sees white tennis shoes poking out from under baggy jeans. It strikes him as odd, because he’s pretty sure the speaker is also the owner of the Harley, and he’s expecting boots at least, maybe some custom leather or something. Dean straightens up and faces the guy, turning his back to the Impala. Looking at the damaged door panel is making him nauseous anyway. 

“Yeah,” Dean grunts. 

“Don’t see any bloodstains; I’m guessin’ you didn’t catch the asshole that did it,” biker dude says.

Dean snorts and shakes his head. “Nope. Long gone by now.”

The guy does look more like a biker from the waist up. He’s about Dean’s age, with a scruffy beard and messy blond hair. The cut he’s wearing informs Dean that he’s the Vice President of the Sons of Anarchy Motorcycle Club, Redwood Original. Also, he is a Man of Mayhem. All of which means absolutely nothing to Dean. Then the guy turns a little to one side and he sees the three-piece patch on his back. That does tell Dean something. The guy’s a one-percenter—Sons of Anarchy is an outlaw biker club.

“She’s a great old girl, dent or no,” the guy continues. “’67 Impala…man…never seen one this slick before.”

A smile twitches at the corner of Dean’s mouth. “You know cars.” 

“My job,” he says and extends his right hand. “Jax Teller.”

Dean takes it, says, “Dean Winchester.” 

“Come on. I’ll buy you a beer,” Jax says, indicating the bar with a tilt of his head. “You’ve had a shitty day.”

“You don’t know the half of it,” Dean mutters, as they walk inside.

**

They’ve bought a couple of rounds apiece, making easy conversation about the Impala and cars in general, and Dean is starting to feel a little better about everything. He’s coming off a lousy weekend even without the bullshit with the car, and he has to meet Dad in Nebraska day after tomorrow. He needs the break.

“So, what brings you here, Dean?” Jax asks.

Dean raises his eyebrows at the question, reflexively stalling his answer until he sees what Jax really wants to know, why he’s asking. Jax must pick up on his defensive posture because he smiles slightly and shows Dean his palms.

“Hey, no big deal. It’s just…I know you’re not from around here. I spend a lot of time on these roads. I would’ve noticed a car like that.”

Dean studies him for a minute, decides there’s no harm in the truth. “My brother’s down in Palo Alto, at Stanford. Just came by to check on him.”

“Yeah? You don’t seem too happy about it. Everything okay?”

“Far as I could tell.”

Jax narrows his eyes, then nods. “That’s good. Family’s everything, you know?”

“Family’s fucked up,” Dean says.

Jax snorts. “That, too,” he says. He sets his bottle down with a clunk. “I gotta get going. Got an auto shop down in Charming. Bring the car over, we’ll fix that dent for you.”

“Appreciate it, but I got it under control.” 

Jax nods, tosses some money on the table and pushes his chair back.

“Later, Jax. Good meetin’ you, man.”

Jax flips Dean a wave and swaggers out. Dean swallows the last of his beer and gets up from the table, time for him to head out too. He’s got a long drive tomorrow. 

It’s full dark now, and the parking lot lighting is for shit, but there’s some moonlight. Dean looks toward the Impala, picks up three figures way too close to it.  _Something’s up._ Dean moves in until he can see that one is Jax, the white lettering of his patch almost glowing in the dark. He’s got his back against the car, facing the other two men. A glint of steel flashes in his hand. 

One of the others is a Hispanic kid of maybe twenty or so, hard to tell in this light. He’s not big, but he’s got a knife. Dean creeps up behind the two and waits for his chance. 

It happens quickly—Jax closes the gap with the first kid and makes a grab for his knife hand. Dean turns his attention to the other guy. He’s acting kind of nervous, watching the fight and shifting from one foot to the other. The way he’s standing, his hand position…yeah, he’s got a knife, too. Dean moves up behind him, gets within a few yards before the first kid spots him and yells something in Spanish.

The second one whirls on Dean and lunges at him with the knife. Dean deflects it with his forearm, drives his right elbow into the other’s neck. He wheezes and Dean grabs him by the shirt collar, slams his head into the side of the nearest vehicle. It happens to be a four-wheel-drive pickup truck. The kid slides bonelessly to the ground. 

Dean turns back toward Jax, hears a blade cut the air, and Jax curses. His opponent is closer now and Jax feints right, then grabs the other’s knife arm, gives it a vicious twist that makes him cry out and drop the blade. Jax throws him up against the side of the truck and says something Dean doesn’t catch, possibly in Spanish. Jax gives him a shove and the kid staggers and runs off into the dark. The other one rouses then, struggles to his feet and follows. 

Jax turns to Dean, panting and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. 

“Thanks, man.”

“No problem. What’s their beef with you?”

“Aw, nothin’ really. Just a couple of Mayan wannabes, trying to prove something. Kids, really.”

“Mayan?”

“Another MC. It’s no big deal…ow, damn it,” Jax says, twisting around trying to look at his back. “Little shit cut me.”

Dean looks to where Jax has lifted up his jacket and he can see a spreading dark spot on his t-shirt, hard to tell how bad. Dean turns away and digs out the keys to the Impala, fishes in his trunk for the Maglite. 

“Here, lift up your shirt; let’s take a look.” Jax does it, and Dean shines the big flashlight onto his lower back. The cut is about three inches long, just behind his right hipbone. Dean tests it gently with his fingers and Jax jumps. 

“Fuck.”

“It looks pretty clean from what I can tell, but it’s deep. Gonna need stitches,” Dean says, considering. “I’d guess at least ten or so.”

Jax lets out an incredulous chuckle. “What, you think you’re a doctor or somethin’?”

Dean snorts. “No, just seen a hell of a lot of knife wounds. Kid laid you open, dude.”

“Shit. What a pain in my ass, have to spend all damned night in the emergency room for this shit…damn it…” Jax mutters, then stops and shakes his head. “That’s not bad enough, then I’ll have to put up with Gemma losing her shit. Christ.”

“Gemma? That your girlfriend?” Dean asks mildly.

Jax snorts. “No. My mom.”

“Um, okay,” Dean says, smirking.

“Don’t even,” Jax says. “You don’t know her.”

Dean looks across the parking lot, thinking, then he decides. “Tell you what, Jax. Spring for a bottle of the good stuff and I’ll stitch it up for you. Got everything I need in the car. I’m at that little motel just up the road.”

Jax laughs, looks dumbfounded. “You’re kidding, right?” 

Dean shrugs. “I’ve done it plenty of times.”

“You’re serious. Look, Dean, you seem all right and I appreciate your help, but…”

“Suit yourself. I’m sure your mom will be glad to take care of it for you,” Dean says, fishing out a rag and handing it to Jax to put over the cut. He puts the flashlight back and closes the trunk lid.

Jax goes abruptly still beside him, and Dean figures he’s seen at least some of what’s in the trunk. He knows it for sure when he sees the look on his face. 

“Who are you?” Jax asks, serious and guarded.

Dean considers. “Let’s just say I don’t like hospitals, either.”

Jax sighs heavily and looks at the ground a minute. He raises his eyes back to Dean’s and shakes his head. “I must be out of my fucking mind, but okay. Let’s do it.”

“I’m down at the Sunset Motel. Can you follow me all right?”

“I got it,” Jax says, wincing as he gets on his bike. 

Dean’s got what he needs out of the trunk and has his key in the door of his room by the time Jax gets there. Dean lets them in and goes into the bathroom. He washes his hands and grabs all of the towels and a couple of wet washcloths, moving by rote. He wasn’t kidding when he said he’s done this before. Way too many times.

When he comes out, Jax is bare-chested, sitting at the table dabbing at the wound. Dean walks around behind him and his breath just _stops_. 

Jax is tattooed with a replica of his patch, so big it covers his whole back. A skeletal grim reaper holding a sickle and some sort of crystal ball takes up the center, with “Sons of Anarchy, California” in semicircles at top and bottom. Dean’s never seen anything like it. He has to clear his throat twice before he can speak.

“That’s a hell of a tat.”

Jax nods once in acknowledgement. “It’s an MC thing. Means something to us.”

“I’d guess so. That’s a shitload of ink. Must have taken a while,” Dean says, as he starts cleaning the blood away from the cut. 

“Symbolic. Anarchy is about freedom; true freedom requires sacrifice and pain.”

“Well, it’s good you’re into pain, because this is gonna sting. Better get some of this whiskey into you anyway,” Dean says, picking up the bottle and taking a pull for himself.

Jax chuckles and makes a successful grab for the booze. “I just said pain was necessary sometimes; didn’t say I liked it.” 

“Whatever. Your momma’s got no worries. Gonna fix Mrs. Teller’s baby boy up, good as new.”

 “It’s Mrs. Morrow, though she’d probably kick your ass for calling her that.” 

“Didn’t seem to bother her when I bent her over,” Dean says as he pulls the towel away from the cut and squints at it. 

“Funny.” Jax snorts. “You don’t know Gemma, so I’m gonna let that slide.” 

Dean leans closer to the wound, trying to see, but he’s having a hell of a time concentrating. All that smooth, marked-up skin is just right there, and he really wants to… _shit, Dean…need to focus here_. He takes a deep breath.

“Fuck, I can’t see a damned thing,” Dean murmurs, blotting at the cut with the bloody towel. “Lay down on the bed.” 

Jax takes another swallow of whiskey and complies. The sight of him stops Dean in his tracks. Stretched out on his stomach, jeans drooping low across his hips, and that back— _Jesus Christ, it’s hot._ And Dean’s got to stop looking, quit thinking about it right now, or he’s not gonna be steady enough to stitch anything.

Dean pulls a chair up next to the bed and sits. It’s still a lot darker than he wants, and he looks around for more light. He leans across Jax’s body to the nightstand to turn on another lamp, and _damn_ , that’s not helping, looking down at Jax spread out underneath him like this. Because Dean’s starting to think that’s exactly where he wants him.

He shoves the thought aside and goes to work, concentrating on making one suture at a time, neat and precise. Jax takes it easy, with a slug of whiskey every two or three stitches, and only an occasional twitch or frown to show he’s in any pain at all. Dean’s not really surprised. 

Dean puts in an even dozen, then cleans the wound and covers it with some gauze. Jax heaves a sigh. He’s looking pretty mellow, relieved and whiskey-loose. Dean presses the last piece of tape into place and goes still for a long moment, just looking. 

Jax is beautiful. It’s not a word Dean uses much, especially with a guy, but there’s just no other word for what he’s seeing. 

Dean’s gaze travels from the curve of his ass, barely showing at the top of his jeans, over the deep black of the tattoo and up to the smooth round of his shoulder. Jax has his head turned back toward Dean, watching him look, lazy grin turning up the corner of his mouth like he knows exactly what Dean is thinking. Hell, maybe he does. It can’t be the first time that naked back has gotten a rise out of somebody. 

“How’s it look?” Jax asks, voice low and whiskey rough.

Dean’s having trouble looking him in the eye. He shifts in the chair, trying to ease the pressure on his hardening dick. 

“Um, good,” Dean says hoarsely, then clears his throat and tries again. “Looks good. Didn’t mess up your ink any.”

“Good,” Jax mumbles, and settles his head back down against the bed, relaxed. 

Dean’s hand is still resting on Jax’s hip and he can’t help it. He slides his hand up and across that gorgeous back, expanse of hard muscle rippling under smooth golden skin. He traces the lines and letters etched there, runs his fingers across the whorls of dark ink. Jax shivers and shifts, neck arching slightly, and Dean takes it for consent. He leans over and tongues the groove of his spine, licking slowly up to the base of his neck. Jax lets out an amazing sound—low, open-mouthed moan that goes straight to Dean’s cock. 

Dean climbs onto the bed and over Jax, leans down and nuzzles at his neck. He breathes, “Okay?” next to his ear. 

“You hear me complaining?” Jax rumbles and Dean groans and rolls his hips against him. 

Dean starts talking then, hardly knows what he’s saying, can’t stop the words from pouring out, mouthing and sucking at his neck. “Fuck…so goddamned gorgeous, Jax…not even my thing, but _shit,_ can’t help it…so fucking hot…”

Jax gives a soft groan and presses his ass up into Dean’s crotch and _holy shit,_ it feels so much better than good. Dean starts on his back again, sucking and licking, working his way down.  _Damn, too many clothes._ “Up,” he urges and Jax lifts up so Dean can get his jeans down and off. Dean strips his own clothes off quickly and crawls back onto the bed. He covers Jax with his body, skin on skin, and mouths at the tattoo, watches his amulet trace patterns over it. 

Dean slides his cock into the crease of Jax’s ass and Jax arches, lets out a little hiss of pain.

“Easy,” Dean mumbles, against his back. “Don’t mess up my work.”

Dean dips his head and sucks hard over the letter C, viciously pleased at the noise Jax makes, the mark he leaves behind. He works his way down, teasing and sucking, driving his tongue into the crease of his ass, until Jax is twitching and thrusting against the bed. Dean grabs his hips in both hands, holding him still and spreading him open with his thumbs.  _So fucking hot_ , tight pink hole exposed, and Dean runs his tongue around the opening, making Jax shudder and curse. 

“Just do it,” Jax gasps. Dean chuckles against his skin, and Jax swears and bunches his fists in the sheets. Dean swirls his tongue, wants to tease bit longer, then he fucks his tongue inside all at once. Jax tenses and groans, loud and rough. Dean keeps pushing with his tongue while he works one finger inside, then the second goes pretty easy too, with Jax so loose and relaxed from earlier, and _shit_ , Dean’s done, he wants to…he just fucking _wants._ He raises himself up and over Jax, says, “Wanna fuck you,” pressing his cock against him, and Jax shivers, gasps out, “Do it. I won’t break.”

_Fuck._ Dean pulls his last couple of brain cells together and leans over the edge of the bed, tosses his jeans for a condom. He rips it open with his teeth and slips it on, then spits into his hand and jacks himself once, twice.  _Wet enough._ He lines up, guiding his cock with his thumb. He presses inside a little at a time, and it’s hard to go slow, it feels _so fucking good._ He can’t…Dean tries to take it easy, be careful of his stitches, but Jax doesn’t act like he’s feeling any pain; he just braces himself and pushes back slow and steady against Dean, until he’s taken Dean all the way in. 

Dean fucks him slow and deep, watching his cock slide into the tight ring of muscle, hot, hard friction dragging, hands gripping, digging into the flesh of his hips. Jax is panting and grunting under Dean, tight ass squeezing him, gorgeous back flexing and rippling, until Dean’s not sure how much longer he’s going to make it. He shifts his weight backward, pulling Jax up with him by one arm around his hips, reaching for his cock with the other hand. Jax makes a choked gasp at the contact, then starts thrusting into Dean’s hand, Dean fucking him harder— _God, so good, he’s getting so close_. Dean roughens his grip, runs his thumb across the slick head and Jax swears, trembling. 

Dean hates to rush this but he can’t help it; he’s not going to last, and he moves his hand faster, twisting on the upstroke. Jax makes a helpless little noise then and comes hard, spilling hot over Dean’s fingers. Dean’s right behind him, sinking his teeth into the darkened skin of Jax’s shoulder as he pulses inside him.

Dean rolls off, away from the wound on Jax’s hip. He gets rid of the condom, then flops back down, lies there catching his breath. Jax sits up slowly, wincing at the pull of the stitches. He reaches for his jacket, grabs and lights a cigarette, leaning back carefully against the headboard. 

“Damn. Didn’t know I had such a thing for ink,” Dean says with a smirk.

Jax blows out a cloud of smoke, smiles down at him. “The Reaper sometimes has that effect on people. But don’t worry; I only use my power for good,” he adds wryly.

“Cocky son of a bitch, aren’t you?”

“Thought I said to leave my mother out of this.”

Dean snorts and sits up, stretching his arms over his head and leaning back, relaxed. After a minute, Jax crushes out his cigarette and slaps Dean on the hip. He gets up and dresses, putting his cut on last, and the Reaper leers at Dean, reminder making his cock stir a little.  _Jesus._

Jax stops at the door. “Thanks, man. Come on down to the shop in the morning. Teller-Morrow’s the name. Get your lady squared away.”

“Thanks, but I’m a pretty fair hand at body work myself,” Dean answers.

Jax quirks a smile. “Yeah. I’ve noticed.” He nods once and he’s gone.


End file.
